Dogs came into the ring with frills round their necks and petticoats round their legs, skipping with the clowns, leaping through barrels. A monkey smoked a pipe and a goat rang a bell.
There was an outburst from the band and the elephants entered, the most amazing things of all. Susan had not imagined they were so immense. She gazed at their large ears flapping uneasily, their tree-like legs, their curling, snaky trunks, and compared them with Bonny, the big draught-horse, who was the largest animal she had seen. She saw them crashing through the Dark Wood, sweeping the trees out of their path, trumpeting as they caught her up and carried her off. They would be welcome, she would run to meet them. They didn’t like the circus, their eyes told her, and she was sad to see them crouched on little tubs, or standing in unwieldy fashion on their hind legs. They were like Samson in the hands of the Philistines, poor giants captive, waiting for God to tell them to pull down the tent poles and bury the crowd in its folds.
A wave of excitement went over the people when the attendants, in their blue and gold coats, erected the wire cage in the middle of the arena. The smell of the lions, the strange wild-beast scent, affected Susan so that she nearly got up and ran. She watched the muscles ripple in their bodies, and their soundless pad, pad, as they glided across the grass. They looked small and disappointing, she had expected something bigger, grander, but their snarls were so blood-curdling she sat waiting for them to spring among the people. Joshua had told her he once saw a lion bite off a keeper’s head, and her father had seen a man’s hand mauled. They sat still on their high perches, moving their feet by inches, gazing far away to Africa, whilst the keeper cracked his whip and shot his pistol. How thankful Susan was when it was safely over and they went back to their cages! They were like the shapes and feelings that haunted her in the wood, creeping silently and then springing.
She stood up elated and thrilled to sing ‘God save the Queen’, which rang through the tent and out into the hills like a paean of praise for deliverance, for many a timid heart had trembled at their first sight of wild beasts.
The drive home in the cold air with lighted lamps under the sparkling sky, so late when she ought to have been asleep, was a fitting climax to the glorious evening. Squeezed between her mother and father, wrapped like a cocoon in rugs, swaying and jolting up and down, as the trap bumped into hollows and rough places, she stared silently up in the sky, whilst Mr and Mrs Garland talked across her of what they had seen.
‘It was grand, it was grand,’ cried Tom with such conviction that the pony changed her trot to a gallop and had to be calmed down.
‘I don’t know how they do it, but they say it’s all done by kindness,’ said Margaret as she clung to the side of the trap.
‘Did you enjoy it, Susan?’
A tiny ‘Yes’ came from the bundle, a faint little whisper.
‘She’s sleepy, poor child,’ murmured her mother, but Susan was wide awake, planning how she could be a circus rider. Fanny seemed her best chance, but Duchess was a nobler-looking mare, with her great hooves which threw up the clods in a shower. It would be fine to stand on her back, among the harness at first for safety, and then with nothing but her mane to cling to. But the farm horses were not so flat, their backs not so table-like as the circus horses, and they were apt to frisk and play. Perhaps Dan would help her; Joshua would have nothing to do with such schemes, she was certain.
They trotted along the hard, ringing roads, past orchards laden with pale globes of green, and rickyards, mysterious in the dark, through groves of trees which touched hands over their heads, under echoing archways and over the sliding river whose talk drowned the noise of Fanny’s hoofs. They passed the toll gate and more trees, alive, urgent, holding out arms and quivering fingers to the sky, breathing, captive prisoners, under whose star-shadow the travellers dipped. Now and again Fanny saw a ghost, and laid back her ears as she danced sideways, shying at the unknown.
They left behind them the great bulk of a mill, and a row of cottages with lights in the upstair windows. Phantom cats ran across the road, and horses stood with their noses twitching over the gates at the stranger. They passed the lawyer’s house, and a high stone archway through which they echoed, and more trees, a turn of the road, a milestone, a crossroad, another village, the gates of Eve’s Court, the church, the hill by the river, the ripple of water and their own familiar hillside came in sight.
At the foot of the hill Tom fastened the reins on the splashboard and left the pony to go alone, whilst he and Margaret walked up behind. Up the first steep hill he pushed, and the pony with her head near the ground, ran at the difficult slope pulling and straining like the good little lass she was. Her feet sent the stones hurtling down the hill, her muscles stood out. Susan sat, a huddled little figure, nearly tumbling backwards as the trap climbed up under the trees.
Two beams of light streamed on to the hedgerows and banks, illuminating every blade and twig, so that the spider’s webs shone like spun glass, and the leaves were clear as if under a magnifying glass. The rays startled the rabbits and caught the soft eyes of the young cows who had returned to the comfort of the gateways. As they moved up the hill, high trees and low bushes stepped out of the darkness and then disappeared. The lights of Windystone shone down on them from above, like planets in the sky, for Becky had left the shutters unclosed for a beacon.
The pony rested for a few minutes to get her wind and then went on. Again she winded under the oak tree which spread its branches across the path, the recognized ‘winding place’ for horses from unknown time. Even a new horse slackened and stood still under this tree, without waiting for ‘Whoa’, as if the mares in the stables had told him the custom. But when a strange servant drove up and urged the horse past the place, he would turn his head with a questioning, protesting look in his patient eyes, as if he were Balaam’s ass about to speak.
So Fanny stood there, her sides heaving, as she breathed in deep draughts of the cold fresh air, and again she went on towards the lamplight above.
The Milky Way stretched across the high sky, from the Ridge to the dark beech trees. Auriga rose above the top pasture and hung with flaming Capella on the horizon. The Great Bear swung over the tall stone chimneys which stood out like turrets against the sky, and Vega was there above the branches in the orchard.
The trap rattled into the yard, and pulled up by the front gate. The dog barked, the doors opened, letting out floods of bright light. Joshua appeared with a lantern and took charge of the pony. Susan ran indoors, but Tom Garland stayed a moment to look at the sky. It was good to be there, high up, like an island above the world, near the stars and heaven. His father, his great-grandfather had stood there with the same thoughts on starlight nights, in that kingdom of their own. Then he too turned and walked into the welcoming house, full of firelight and good smells.
Susan lay in bed in her unbleached calico nightgown, imagining herself a golden girl, lightly riding through the air, with flower-bedizened skirts and wreathed head, touching a dappled pony’s back ever so lightly with the point of one toe, tossing kisses and roses through the crystal air to a sea of dark people. Round and round went the pony, higher and higher she flew, until through the tent she saw the stars and she fled away among them.
7
The Secret
Susan had a secret which fluttered up and down in her breast, trying to fly out of her mouth. But it mustn’t, it must stay down inside or it would be lost for ever. She had whispered it to her bedroom, and now she wanted to tell someone else.
She set the dinner table and ran to the trough for a jug of water. She gave everyone a china mug, and put the teapot on the stove ready for her father’s cup of tea. Margaret and Becky hurried in and out of the pantry and larder, carrying cold meat and pickles, bread and cheese and apple pasties. The men came in as they took the roast potatoes from the oven and piled them on the plates. They stamped their feet at the door to knock off the clods and brushed their boots with the yard brush, for not a sc
rap of earth must come in the kitchen on the red and black tiles. They hung their caps on the hooks, and washed with great splashings and swillings at the sink before they drew their chairs squeaking across the floor and sat down.
Susan sat subdued in the middle, with lowered brows and sulky mouth. ‘Children should be seen and not heard’ had silenced her. Then she wouldn’t tell them, and serve them right. In any case her mother would make her put it in her holly money-box in the hall, or even slip part of it into the box for the Polynesian missions.
She had never had such a large sum in her life before. She pondered ways of spending her secret, whilst the talk flew over her head. Should she buy a mother-of-pearl purse with a spray of flowers painted down one side, and ‘A present from Broomy Vale’ in curling, flourishing letters down the other? For a year she had longed for this every time she had seen it in Miss Lavender’s shop window, when she had gone with her father to the big market. Whilst he looked at the cows and poked their sides, or rubbed the backs of the sheep in the pens, or went for a word with Joshua who had charge of the calves sent from Windystone, she sat patiently in the cart holding the reins, and eating a bun from a paper bag. She could see the purse, amid tea cosies and egg timers, crochet mats and shell boxes.
Or should she get a brooch with her initial on it, S for Susan? A silver one, perhaps with her whole name. A safety ink bottle was most desirable, made of red leather, or a book. ‘A Thousand and One Arabian Nights’ Entertainment’ floated in her mind. Where had she heard of it? ‘Arabia, Arabia,’ she murmured softly, and she caught the clock’s eye and nodded. She peered behind at the settle. They knew she had something to tell them when she was alone with them. ‘Arabia, Arabia.’
‘Don’t chunter, Susan, and get on with your dinner,’ scolded Margaret.
In the afternoon when Becky had gone upstairs to change her dress, and her father with Dan and Joshua were in the fields breaking in the foal, an experiment she loved to watch, she came back to the house and stood in the passage, soft-stepping, mysterious. She turned the handle and waited outside the door a moment before entering just to give everything a chance to get back to its place again. Then she stepped lightly in. There was no one, but the air vibrated and trembled with words which had just flown across. For a moment the room was surprised at being caught, and then it welcomed her. She rubbed her finger slowly and meditatively along the oak dresser, rough under its polish with ridges of wear, pitted with shot where a gun had accidentally gone off a hundred years ago, but as fresh in the memory as yesterday. The tallboy sent out warm delicious homely smells of cinnamon, camomile, ginger and tea; the grandfather clock ticked loudly, and then changed his voice to a softer note, as she listened with quick-beating heart and intense love. They all understood her, even before she spoke, they wanted to tell her they were glad of her, that however far away she went, even if she grew up, they would remain the same, her faithful friends.
She had lain alone for hours, a tiny girl, fastened in the settle by a board which hooked across the front, making a house for her. She had listened to the clock with its varying tick, and the crackling fire, she had watched the flies circling round the ceiling, content and amused by the little sounds which flickered round the room, aware of a presence which protected her whilst her mother and father were out driving to the big town, or visiting the farms and markets eight or ten miles away, leaving the men working in the fields, and the girl busy with all her odd jobs. When they returned they marvelled at her patience, and never knew she had so many friends.
She opened her mouth to speak, her voice took on a soft, low, musical tone as she half whispered, ‘I’ve got a secret. Shall I tell you? Do you want to know?’
She felt a stir but nothing moved, all was expectant, as she gazed lovingly at each piece of furniture, letting her eyes move deliberately round the room, her thoughts dwelling on each, so intimately near, closer than her parents or school friends.
‘I have won a half-crown piece,’ she announced with triumph. The clock shook and whirred as he drew himself up and solemnly struck three. Susan waited till the echoing chime had died away and then continued. ‘I won it for recitation, from the vicar of Dangle. A new half-crown,’ and she dived in her pocket and brought it out shining white.
‘And shall I tell you what I’m going to do? I shall buy a book with it, called’ – and here she paused to impress the room – ‘A Thousand and One Nights.’ She waited again, and the room was all ears.
‘A thousand and one tales, it will last me nearly three years, and sometimes I will read bits of it to you. It’s about a far country, Arabia.’
‘Arabia,’ murmured the room sleepily.
‘Arabia,’ cried the fire and the words floated up the chimney out into the sky.
‘I recited “The Spacious Firmament”, and I will say it to you. Listen,’ and she stood on the rag hearthrug with her back to the fire and faced the room and its listeners. She lifted her head to the bright gun slung across the ceiling, and in a low, quiet, vibrating voice recited Addison’s hymn:
‘The spacious firmament on high
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.
Th’ unwearied sun from day to day
Does his Creator’s power display;
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The Moon takes up the wondrous tale;
And nightly to the listening Earth
Repeats the story of her birth:
Whilst all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball;
What though nor real voice nor sound
Amidst their radiant orbs be found?
In Reason’s ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice;
For ever singing as they shine
“The Hand that made us is divine”.’
At the end she bowed and waited for a moment with her fingers tightly clasped, and a rapt expression on her face.
‘That’s all.’
A force electrified the room, and the air trembled with thoughts and waves of feeling from the things unseen. Then away she went to the Whitewell field to watch the paces of the foal, and forgot the waiting listeners in her pleasure.
She hid her half-crown under her mattress, but Becky discovered it and had to be pledged to secrecy. She hid it again in a hole under a tree, and there it lay for a week. Then she begged to go to Broomy Vale with her father. But whilst he sat in the barber’s shop, she fastened the reins round the handle of the brake and went boldly to the bookshop.
Yes, they had it in a cheap edition, small print and poor paper, bound in red cloth. She carried it back and hid it under her cape. It was disappointing on the outside, and there were no pictures, but there was a tremendous lot of reading. She pored over it in bed when she should have been asleep, sitting up with her candlestick on the pillow. But her mother looked up from the water trough and saw the little light dancing through the window. She hurried upstairs, and the stairs cried out to warn Susan, who popped her book down among the bedclothes, blew out the candle and shut her eyes.
She was betrayed by a little grey curl of smoke which hovered in the air over her face, an accusing finger pointing down at her. Mrs Garland took away the ‘Thousand and One Nights’ for ever.
It nearly put out the kitchen fire, but the damper was drawn out, and it flamed away, up the chimney, through the boughs of the whispering elm, to the wood, where it sank in black flakes among the beech and chestnut trees, dropping to the earth with their fluttering gold leaves.
Susan found another book, with stories nearly as exciting as those in th
e ill-fated Arabian Nights. There was no love in this book, only terrors, no Peri, only Death, no Paradise, only a raging, burning hell.
It was a thick, solid little book called The Tower of Faith, full of short stories which the child read greedily. She was terrified by it, but she could not keep away.
Death hid on every page ready to fall on the wicked, to punish the thoughtless, to confound the ungodly. The children in the book all did exactly as Susan would have done, she felt here was a mirror of herself, warning her in time of her probable, no, certain fate. There was no escape from the all-seeing eye.
There was the story of the boy who went bird-nesting when he should have been at church. He was caught in a storm and killed by lightning, and his poor burnt bones were found lying in the fields by his parents.
There was a saucy miss who turned up her nose at good meat, and came to beg at the houses of her school friends, a thin scarecrow of a woman, desolate and ragged.
There was the girl who wrote her own epitaph in a moment of merriment and died at the very date she had given. Susan was so thrilled by this that she sat down at once with paper and pencil to write hers. She put it in a drawer and kept the date in memory, but as the time approached she got so alarmed she tore it up, and the day passed safely by.
There was, too, the careless non-religious girl who heard a warning voice. She said, ‘God bless you’ to her mother as she left for her work in the morning, but when she returned her mother was dead. She was so thankful her last words had been good that she turned then and there to religion.
The stories of warning voices made a deep impression on Susan. She had always felt life to be insecure. At nine years old death might come at any moment. The religion of the time fostered these feelings, the texts decorating the walls were a preparation for death. Any time, too, the world might come to an end, and flare up like a piece of tissue paper, or tinder from a rotten tree.
The Country Child Page 7
