by David Rees
‘I don’t know,’ Tim confessed. ‘There is nothing to hold me in Exeter. I had thought of leaving, but where or for what purpose I’m undecided.’
‘Allow me to accompany you for a while,’ said Saint-Hill. ‘I’m leaving for Bristol shortly. I have relations there.’
‘It would be a pleasure. Thank you.’
‘The way is long when one travels alone.’
In the afternoon they continued their stroll. Workmen were repairing a pump in Catherine Street that had been allowed to fall into disuse some weeks before; a baker in St Martin’s Lane was painting his shop-front; middens were being cleared near St Stephen’s. In the cathedral, however, labourers had already set about the task of building the wall at the crossing: it mutilated, hideously, the beauty and harmonious shape of the interior. The New Model soldiers were much in evidence, at the gates and in the busier streets, but an acquaintance of Saint-Hill’s, whom they met in Butchers’ Row, told them that the bulk of the army would be withdrawn tomorrow or the next day, in order to speed up the liberation of the remaining areas of the West Country still in Royalist hands. Fairfax himself was to command them, leaving the government of the city to civilians, who would be protected by a small garrison stationed at the castle.
‘We might as well think about departing ourselves,’ said Saint-Hill.
‘Yes, perhaps we should,’ Tim answered.
‘But in the opposite direction.’
Next morning they set out, Tim on Anthony Fare’s white horse. He had with him Anthony’s lute; he had asked for it at the gatehouse and the soldiers who fetched it did not question why he wanted it. They travelled at a moderate pace; having no pressures on them of any sort there was no need to hurry. Soon they were surrounded by the quiet of the autumn fields. The day was warm and sunny, but with a hint that frost would occur by nightfall. It was a rich, lush country side they travelled through, of water-meadows and orchards, but there were signs everywhere in unpicked fruit and rotting crops that husbandry-had been neglected, and deserted villages and burned-out barns showed that armies had trampled across the land, first advancing then retreating, again and again, during these past few years of war.
Saint-Hill waxed eloquent on every subject imaginable, though always turning back to politics, religion, or military matters; some of his discourse was, as always, too enthusiastic, but often it contained a certain shrewdness. Tim laughed at his most elaborate flights of fancy, and, though Saint-Hill knew he was being mocked, he did not complain. He was a man without malice, whose feelings were invariably generous, but whose ideas were never wholly consistent. He was soft and vulnerable, in need of protection, almost a Don Quixote. But he shortened the way admirably; as they neared Taunton, late in the evening, Tim thought to himself that the time could not have passed more quickly or more pleasantly.
It was a month later and he was alone, in the mountains. The air was sharp, the light brilliant, the sky a dazzling blue. All around him soared crags and peaks of incomparable majesty. In their highest gullies the year’s first snow lay, blinding in the sun. He reined in his horse and observed warily. The young man, who was resting on the bank of the lake, stood up, walked down to the water, and began to wash his face. He was the most handsome person Tim had ever seen: tall, slim, with a slow, almost languid walk that seemed to conceal reserves of strength. His face was sunburned and his hair the colour of flax. Tim dismounted and led his horse; the young man, hearing the movement, looked up, but went back to his washing. Eventually he turned round and stared.
‘Stranger?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Looking for work?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s plenty to be done. Where are you from?’
‘I set out from Exeter four weeks ago.’
‘Exeter! That’s far away. Another world! Is it for the King, or Parliament?’
‘Exeter? Whether it is for either is a question no-one’s asked, but to answer yours, it surrendered to Fairfax a while since.’
‘And you? No, there’s no need to tell me. The war is almost over and the King has lost. Some say he’s already in France. What did you see on your journey?’
‘In the towns much is normal, except where the battle was severe, as in Taunton or Bristol or Gloucester. In parts of the countryside there is such desolation as I never thought to dream of. Land wasted by foraging armies, cows wandering the highroads bellowing for their masters, blackened farmsteads, beggars by the dozen, men crippled or blinded, motherless children: all victims of war, or caught in the cross-fire of it.’
‘I have a farm that I never thought to inherit so early in life. My father was killed at Naseby; my mother died from a stray shot one morning when she was feeding the hens. An accident, yes, but no-one stopped long enough to discuss it.’ He bent down, drank from the water, and wiped his mouth. ‘There is a deal of work to be done. Fields overgrown with weeds, animals to be fed, thatch to repair, cooking and cleaning. You can help me if you wish.’
‘I would like to.’
‘You may not when you see the state of things.’
‘Are you married?’
‘No. Nor do I intend to be. Are you?’
‘No.’ They looked at each other for a moment.
‘Do these mountains please you?’
‘There’s . . . grandeur, solitude. They’re beautiful. A man could be utterly lost, yet find himself here.’
‘I was born here, in Wasdale. What is your name?’
‘Tim.’
‘Mine is John.’
‘It’s a name I like.’
‘I’ll show you the farm.’ The war had not left this remote place untouched. The house was a ruin; most of the windows had been smashed and part of the roof burned. ‘It is largely derelict,’ John said. ‘The rain has soaked into all the bedrooms and they cannot be used, and downstairs only the kitchen is habitable. Can you thatch a roof?’
‘I can learn.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ll start in here.’ Tim surveyed the kitchen: piles of unwashed dishes, half-eaten food, a blocked sink, a smoking fire. ‘I can cook.’
‘I have little or no money, but we can share everything, if that suits you.’
‘It will.’
‘I’ll start outside, then. Your coming gives me some hope: the farm will benefit first, and, afterwards, we shall too.’
Later, having eaten, they sat on either side of a warm fire that did not smoke now, puffing at pipes of tobacco, in a companionable silence.
‘I don’t know how long I shall stay,’ Tim said. He was fingering the strings of Anthony’s lute, trying to work out chords.
‘No? Well, you are right not to tie yourself down. We’re young; you will want to see the world yet, as I shall myself.’
‘Yes.’
‘Let us see how it works. There’s a little beer left in the cellar; we’ll drink to our success.’ He went out and fetched it. ‘That fire’s good,’ he said when he returned. ‘How did you manage it?’
‘I swept the chimney. It had not been done for centuries.’
‘I’ll bring the mattress up to the hearth and we can sleep in the warm. Does that suit you too?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve dreamed about it,’ Aaron said. ‘Every single night.’ They were sitting round the fire in the bar of his father’s pub, The King’s Head. It was long after closing time and all the other customers had gone. Mr and Mrs Brown were in the kitchen making cocoa. Tim had enjoyed his glimpse of the family. Peter was shy and silent, and though he was obviously Aaron’s younger brother, he was not nearly so good-looking. Mr Brown was as Ron had described him, genial and easy-going; he had a pleasant casual friendship with his sons, obviously liked and trusted them a lot. Tim had not expected this; he was now so used to feeling Ron was not a person to be trusted. However, it was quite usual, he thought, with people you knew at school to find their behaviour at home was different from what you imagined. Though this had not been true at t
he Suñers two days ago. Of the two elder brothers there was no sign; David was married and had his own house, and Martin, an art student, was at his girl-friend’s.
‘Have you heard any more from the newspaper?’ Ray asked.
‘If you’d been around yesterday or the day before you’d know,’ Aaron replied. ‘They want three thousand words on the subject by a fortnight tomorrow. Who’s going to do it?’
‘Tim,’ John suggested. ‘University potential, and all that.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Tim said.
‘Good. That’s settled, then,’ Aaron decided. ‘And don’t forget to name the idiot who lost the compass.’
‘How much are they paying?’ Ray asked.
‘A hundred pounds.’
‘A hundred pounds! That’s marvellous!’
‘You’re joking! It’s not exactly what Harold Wilson got for his memoirs, is it? And we’re not train robbers’ wives, or Raquel Welch.’
‘You haven’t quite the same attractions, Ron.’
‘I told them it was peanuts, and I wouldn’t do it for less than five hundred. But they just laughed. Still, it’s something, I suppose. It’ll help towards the loud-speakers. My share, that is.’
‘Twenty-five each,’ John said. ‘Not bad!’
‘Where have you all been this past couple of days?’ Aaron asked, irritably. ‘There’s me slaving my guts out getting you money, and no sign of any of you. You might have shown up, Ray! I phoned you last night, but your mother said you were out.’
‘I was. How far did you get with Mary Miller?’
‘Mind your own business.’ He helped himself to a cigarette, then offered them round. ‘Where were you last night, Ray?’
‘I went out for a drink. With Tim.’
‘Oh.’ Aaron was a little surprised. ‘And the night before?’
‘I should tell you to mind your own business. Tim came to supper, if you really must know.’ Ray blushed, for John was looking at him too. Aaron would now have doubts about Ray, Tim thought, or, at least, Aaron would say he had doubts. Was he on the turn, that sort of thing. He’d discussed this with Ray last night. A week ago, Ray said, he would have crawled into a hole and died if he’d been the recipient of such a comment, particularly from Ron. Now it was not quite so important, though he wouldn’t like it, of course. It was inevitable, however, that Aaron would find out eventually, but at least one thing had come clear during the days in the tent: he was more tolerant than Ray had thought. How so, Tim asked. See how he treats you, Ray answered; he doesn’t really care if you are as long as he’s not pestered himself.
The evening at the Suñers had been fascinating. The grandparents were like withered old nuts, the dark skin of their oval-shaped faces unbelievably creased; the same jet black hair and dark eyes as the rest of the family. They spoke English only with difficulty. Ray’s father was a thin wiry man who chain-smoked, physically quite different from his son, less heavy, not so tough. The whole evening had been a plunge into a completely foreign world for Tim. Politics, religion, and Spain dominated the conversation, though Mrs Suñer frequently asked them not to discuss these wearisome topics, tonight at least; it was so boring for Ramón’s friend. Mr Suñer, after several requests, produced his guitar. He was an expert, or, at least, Tim thought so. Ron would like to learn this kind of thing, Ray said, but he hadn’t the patience. There followed an hour of flamenco, and songs: the melancholic songs of the losing side, young men tragically killed in battle. Then it was Ray’s turn; pieces by Pedrell, Turina, de Falla. He was not as good as his father, perhaps never would be: music did not flow with the same grace and ease from his finger-tips. But Tim was surprised. He had not known that Ray played the guitar at all. Several times he had to remind himself that he was in a council flat in his home town of England: there was Daz on the shelf, an English gas-cooker, Sainsbury’s tea-bags in the pot. They had eaten English chicken and chips. He was not in Castile, or Galicia, or Andalusia.
Last night he and Ray had visited the gay pub. They had gone in with beating hearts and nervous shivers. It turned out to be rather an anticlimax: it was so ordinary. Nothing about the people in there, apart from some fragments of conversation they overheard, indicated that they were different from the rest of the world. He wondered what he had been expecting. Handbags and make-up? Limp-wristed drag queens? Something, perhaps, that would upset him so much that he would say, no, he was wrong; it wasn’t the life for him. No-one accosted them, though several people eyed them with a certain curiosity. There’s nothing, he thought, to prevent him coming in again.
He came back to the conversation round the fire; Aaron was wondering what would have happened if they hadn’t lost their way on Glaramara. Tim found his glass had been refilled.
‘We’d have had a much more enjoyable holiday in some ways,’ John said. ‘But less to remember.’
‘I didn’t not enjoy it,’ Aaron said. ‘In retrospect. Seen Lesley?’
‘Of course.’
‘That’s why you haven’t been around.’
‘Yes.’
‘Done anything interesting?’
‘Catching up. There was a lot to talk about.’
‘I wonder if they do,’ Tim murmured to Ray.
‘Who? What?’
‘John and Lesley.’
‘After three years? Bit crazy not to. Though John will never say. A very private person, John.’
So are we all, Tim thought. How complicated it is! I’m coming to terms with it, slowly. The next few years will be the aftermath of civil war, mending the parts that bleed. Will I be happy? There’s a chance, even though growing up’s so painful. There will be a time when it all slots into place; there must be. Then I shall be free: I’ve already chosen to be what I am, which is what I always have been.
