by Sarah Moss
Oh. My heart flopped under my breastbone, as if I’d been caught out. A teacher had noticed once, changing for PE, but it wasn’t illegal for a parent to use reasonable chastisement and there were still plenty of teachers in post who had wielded canes and rulers in their day. Children’s bodies were not their own, we were all used to uncles who liked to cop a feel given half a chance and mums who showed love in smacked legs. I cheeked my dad, Miss, got a walloping. Yes well, she said, I can’t say I’m entirely surprised.
Nothing, I said, must have been a trick of the light. She looked at me. I looked away. He hits you, she said, your dad. He’s been hitting you here. You’re scared of him. No, I said, no I’m not, of course I’m not, you don’t know what you’re talking about, maybe—I stopped. Maybe you’re jealous because your dad left you, because he doesn’t love you, because he doesn’t care enough to teach you a lesson. Haven’t you been listening, people don’t bother to hurt what they don’t love. To sacrifice it. It’s nothing, Moll, I said, really, there’s nothing wrong. OK, she said, fine, you don’t have to talk about it. But there is something wrong. It’s not OK for someone to hit you.
THE NEXT DAY was the hottest we’d had, shimmering and windless. By mid-morning you could smell the heather baking underfoot on the moor, and the telephone mast on the horizon floated and wavered as if it had gone adrift. When I went into the woods the shade under the oak trees felt cavernous but there was no memory of cool ground even in the middle of the forest; the air fizzed with midges that massed on exposed skin as soon as I stopped moving. I felt as if I could still hear the beat of the night-time drums, as if somewhere in my head or my guts they went on sounding. After breakfast Dad and the Prof went off up the hill to the moor again, as though they were negotiating the end of the Cold War up there rather than playing at Picts and Romans. We’re working on an idea, said the Prof, we might have something rather special to do later. Foraging again, you lot, you might go back to the beach, the mussels are an obvious protein source. Pete and Molly looked at each other, visibly remembering the heat of our last beach trip. The tide’s just coming up at the moment, said Dan, I suppose we could go later this afternoon, it should be cooler then as well. There’ll be hazels by now, Dad said, if you know where to look, keep better and safer than mussels an’ all. Hazelnuts, said Dan, really, they grow wild? Yes, I said, and you can eat them green, if you’ve ever had cobnuts they’re just a cultivated version. Oh, OK, he said, thanks, and I blushed. Little Miss Show-Off.
I couldn’t really remember where hazels were likely to grow, and anyway no-one else much cared. The others were tired, it was clear that the grown-ups’ attention was not on us, they wanted to sit somewhere shady and chat about people and plans that they knew and I didn’t. I’d never seen Dad as distracted from me and Mum as he was then but I didn’t trust that he’d forget what he’d told me to do. The hazels were just a suggestion, Sil, said Dan, he didn’t say you had to. I didn’t tell him that Dad didn’t make suggestions, but after a while I left them sitting at the top of the woods batting at midges and arguing about who’d got most drunk the previous term. I wandered through the trees, heading vaguely down hill although there wasn’t a path, treading quietly for no particular reason. Pete’s voice and Molly’s laughter came winding through the branches for some time after I’d stopped hearing Dan. The drums beat in my head. Skin drums, sheepskin, and when I listened I heard a sheep call from the hillside. They hear the drums too, I thought, the sheep and the rabbits, the owls and foxes, they pass by and see the skulls raised high, their own skulls. I licked sweat off my upper lip and let the twigs scratch my arms as I pushed past. I was hungry again.
I found a hazelnut tree in the end, but then I couldn’t find the students, and then there came a strange half-hour when I couldn’t find my way out of the wood although I knew it was small and on a hill and that going either up or down the slope in an approximately straight line would bring me to the edge. Shards of sunlight came through the trees. I tried to keep them on my left and head up hill, towards where I’d last heard Molly, but I couldn’t hear her any more and the sun had got round to my right and I was getting so thirsty it was hard to think about anything but water, which I didn’t have but the others did and anyway I couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes from the hut and the stream and Mum who would have something I could eat. A bird sang insistently behind me, a shrill phrase repetitive as a telephone’s bell. The tunic rasped my damp skin, clung to the still tender places on my back, and there were crumbs of earth and bark in the folds of my toes. Water. I needed water. The bird called again and I felt the sound shrill through my skull, reverberate in the gathering headache. I came to a thicket and turned to go down hill instead, switched the bag of nuts from one sore shoulder to the other. Of course I came out into the field, probably really quite fast; it was an acre of English woodland, not the Black Forest. After two fields I came to the stream and stopped to scoop water into my mouth and over my face. Never drink from the stream in sheep country, but the water was running fast enough and I was past caring.
Mum was sitting down again. Your dad came back, she said, he said to tell you you’ll be needed tonight. I need a drink of water, I said. Is there anything I can eat? Not much, she said, I’ve not cooked. He said to tell you. What about the plums, I said, could I have some of those, you cooked them, right? They’re very sour, she said, I don’t know what folk did with them before they had sugar, you’d need a gill of honey and then some. I don’t think I mind, I said, I’ll eat them sour, but she was right, even for a hungry teenager a couple were enough. Acid yellow shrivelled plums and tepid water washed in my stomach. I thought about making bannocks, since Mum didn’t seem to be about to do anything, since other people would be back and wanting to eat too, but I couldn’t face being near the fire – Mum, I said, you’ve let the fire out. Well, she said, it’s that hot, who’s wanting one any road? Dad, I said, what do you think he’ll say, what were you thinking, you know how he goes on about the fire and the hearth and all that, let’s get it lit again quick, did he say when he’d be back. She sat down again. The fire were out when he came, she said, he’s already seen it. You’re too late, love, might as well sit down a minute.
I didn’t ask her. I didn’t want to know. If he had any sense, the bruises would come up in places where the rest of us didn’t have to see them.
I thought I’d rest a while, keep her company, but there was no respite from the sun. Heat seemed to be reflecting off the land itself. I took a piece of cloth from the hut, left Mum folded where she was and went to dip my hair, my whole head, in the stream, kneeling fully clothed on the bank. As the water ran down my face, trickled warm between my breasts and down my back, I squatted on the bank to soak the linen cloth in fresh water for Mum. The bog myrtle grew there still cool and dark-leaved, so I picked a sprig for Mum and then had another idea and stripped a handful of new shoots, no more than two from each bush so the plants could recover quickly. I rubbed a leaf between my fingers and sniffed the balm, like lime and warm spices. When I was little I used to go to the bathroom and smell Mum’s talc after I’d been smacked; I suppose I thought the scent might comfort her now. My wet hair was already warm on my neck as I walked back to the hut, the tunic damp and scratchy. Here, Mum, help you cool down a bit, I said. She didn’t move. You’ll maybe want to go into the hut and try a bit of a sponge bath, I said, feel a bit fresher, and look, I’ve bog myrtle for you, and when I helped her up she took it and went in. I squatted at the fireside, put down the bunch of myrtle for Molly, picked up a handful of warm ashes and watched it sift through my fingers. I remembered the ashes on the moor tops, the indecipherable fragments of bone. They did things with ashes, the Iron-Age Britons, made lime or potash or something. Or maybe that was later. The round stones ringing the fire were still warm. I sat down and used my new basket-weaving skills to make a crown of myrtle for Molly. I imagined its grey-green in her hair, the scent of it on her face.
Mum came out and sat down
again. There were four fingermarks on her upper arm. It were my fault, she said, I knew how much he cares about the fire an’ all. It’s too hot, anyroad, I said, no-one’s wanting fire.
We heard laughter and loud voices coming through the trees. I looked at my silly plaited crown and put it behind me. What had I been thinking, Molly wasn’t six. Oh, Mum said, they’ve only gone and been to the bloody pub, that was all we needed, can you imagine. Maybe they’re just happy, I said, high-spirited, but she shook her head and when they arrived I could see that she was right. We’ve not even got much they can eat to soak it up, she said, them plums aren’t going to be any good, but Pete was carrying a bag of sliced white bread in each hand and Molly cradled a plastic bottle of lemonade. Here you go, Mrs Hampton, Pete said, it’s no day to be slaving over a hot stove. Or campfire. Well, she said, what’ll the Professor say to that, put it away, do. He’d probably want some himself, said Dan, anyway, I do. Look, we got some ham too. He pulled a transparent packet of flaccid pink slices out of his pocket.
Mum and I sat against the hut and watched them pass around the woolly bread and wet ham. I fiddled with the wreath at my side. Have some, Silvie, said Pete, you must be starving. Molly handed me the lemonade, too heavy for one hand. Here, it’s for you, it was cold, I got them to put it in the chiller thing for wine, but it’s probably warmed up now. I glanced up the hill, cocked an ear to the wood for Dad’s footfall, and millimetre by millimetre unscrewed the hissing lid, hearing the pressure fall, feeling the slow release under my fingers. Beside me, Mum leant against the wall and let her eyes fix on nothing. Opposite, in the shade of the oak tree, knees apart like those of a child who doesn’t know anyone cares about her knickers, Molly peeled a square slice of ham and lowered it onto her square of white bread, aligning the corners. Her lips and tongue reached as she took a large bite that left toothmarks in the flesh. She sucked salt from her index finger and then pushed a wisp of honey hair behind her ear. I looked up, saw Pete watching me watch her and blushed, felt the sudden heat in my face like pee in pants.
We heard the voices of Dad and the Prof an hour or so later. The others had gone off to cool down in the stream, the odd pulse of talk and laughter drifting back through the trees. Molly would be naked, I knew, or at best down to bright lace underwear and I couldn’t still a beat of fear for her if Dad saw, although I knew he couldn’t and wouldn’t do anything worse than radiating rage and disgust. I had relit the fire and was feeding it and watching the new flames, ghostly in sunlight. Mum sat up as if her puppet-master had yanked her strings, and then lumbered to her feet. I haven’t got the dinner on, she said, help me, Silvie. Well, I said, they didn’t eat by the clock, did they, but I set the bag of hazelnuts conspicuously beside the log where Dad usually sat, and poured water into the cauldron so we could cook something. Whatever there was. How do you eat dried fish, I asked. In winter, said Mum, it spoilt in the sun, did you not notice, the smell was so bad I buried it, days since. So what is there now, I said. She shrugged. Hazelnuts. Mushrooms. A heel of white bread. Molly’s laughter rang from the stream.
But they weren’t angry. They drank a lot of water and opened and ate the nuts intently, chewing one while stripping the green shell from the next. Mum stood watching. Steam began to rise from the water which there was now no reason to heat.
Right, said the Prof, Silvie, can we have a word with you, about the plan for tonight? It’s something special. Come for a little stroll. I glanced at Mum, who didn’t raise her eyes, and went.
They wanted to kill me at sunset. To march me up onto the moor to the beat of the drums and the bass chanting, to tie my hands and my feet, to put a rope around my neck that could be tightened and loosened for as long as blades and rocks could hold me wavering between life and death. Of course we won’t actually hurt you, the Prof said, I hope you know that, Silvie. It’s just the ritual we want to try, the way it must have looked and sounded, the drums on the moor and the winding of the ropes. I could feel my breathing tight, heat spreading from my chest into my arms. But we don’t know, do we, I said, what it was like, you said there’s no evidence, we know how they died but not why. That’s why we should do this, he said, that’s what we might learn. I promise you’ll come to no harm. She knows that, said Dad, she’s not daft. Are you, Silvie? Why does it have to be me, I said, although I knew the answer. Because I was the person you can hurt. Because I was the scapegoat, the sacrifice, the thing Dad wanted to keep. Well, said the Prof, they were mostly women, women and girls, and I can’t ask Molly, she’s a student and frankly her marks aren’t great and I don’t want her saying she was pressured into anything she didn’t want to do, it could put me in a very difficult position. Your dad said you’d do it. Aye, and she will, said Dad, there’s no call for all this fuss Silvie, it’s just a bit of play-acting for the Professor’s work. It sounds a bit weird, I said, I’m not sure, the ropes. He told you, said Dad, no-one’s going to hurt you, we’ll all be there, of course you’ll do it. Now you go help your mum get a proper meal for everyone, it’s going to be a long night.
The others were back from the stream, sitting damp and clean under a tree well away from the fire. Molly had a bowl of dough beside her and was shaping uneven flatbreads onto a platter where they would stick to it and each other. Mum was cutting up mushrooms with a flint knife. I went and sat by Molly and pulled off a handful of dough. So what was that about, she said, more bone-worship? I shook my head, found crying rising into my mouth and nose. Jesus, Silvie, what is it? I bit my lip, swallowed, bowed my head so the others wouldn’t see. Not that they wouldn’t see me tied up later, paraded in front of them. What, tell me! I squashed the ball of dough between my hands, tried to pat it out. It was too sticky, needed more meal. Molly put down her lump, stood up, rubbed her hands together. Come on, she said, come and talk. Mum needs these, I said, Dad said. Yes, well, she said, I say. Come on. Tell me what they said.
Dad had gone off to the wood, the Professor to write up his day. I finished forming the bread, picked up the wilted wreath from where I’d dropped it by the hut and walked behind Molly towards her tent. Maybe I could give it to her, after all. Moll’s tent was like being inside a blue lampshade. She had an air mattress in there, a striped cotton sleeping-bag liner curled up like a discarded snakeskin, a sponge-bag unzipped and spilling bottles of nail-varnish and deodorant and face creams, a hairbrush webbed with pale hairs and a fruit salad of bobbles wound around its handle, crumpled crisp-packets and sweet wrappers in a pile in the corner, a couple of battered paperback novels. The tent had the apple smell of Molly. We sat in the entrance, as if the tent fabric meant we wouldn’t be heard. Molly, I said, look, I made something for you, it’s silly but I thought you might like it, the smell, here. I blushed again. Hey, she said, you made me a crown, thanks Silvie. She took it and put it on her barley-coloured hair and my hand reached out to stroke. No. I took the hand back. It’s bog myrtle, I said, I like the smell, you can rub it between your fingers, I expect they used it, then, maybe even in the bedding, it smells clean. Like you, I thought, it smells like you, but I didn’t say so. I like it, she said, I’m the midsummer queen, thank you. Now what’s this about, Sil, tell me. So I told her, more or less.
They’re insane, she said, no way, they’ve completely lost the plot. You’re not doing that, no way. And I’m sorry, Silvie. I’m sorry they thought they could ask you. She put her arm round me. I didn’t cry. I rested my head on her shoulder, breathed her in. Stay with me, OK, she said, just stay near me and I won’t let them do anything, I promise. She stroked my hair. Don’t, I said, it’s filthy, I probably smell. You don’t smell, she said, anyway everyone smells a bit in this heat. You told them you won’t do it, right? I shook my head. I can’t, I said, Dad would be furious, you have to see that, I can’t. Silvie, she said, you can’t let them tie you up and pretend to kill you either, you do know that, you either have to say no or you’ll have to go through with it, and you’re not doing that so you have to tell them. Just say you changed y
our mind. Say you talked to me and I told you not to, they won’t do anything to me. I can’t, I said, I’m sorry Molly, I’m sorry but I can’t. Shaking came from deep inside. I can’t. Dad—Your dad’s not God, she said, he can’t do anything he likes to you. I know, I said, he’s not, it’s OK, I’ll be all right, they did ask. Oh Silvie, she said. Oh Sulevia, goddess of the groves.
