by Agnes Owens
* * *
On arriving home she found her husband sitting at the table with his pipe in his hand.
‘You have had your meal then?’ she said, glancing at the empty stew dish. He did not answer so she took off her coat and scarf and hung them on the peg behind the door then turned back to him saying, ‘I waited for you as long as I could.’
But he still sat like a mussel.
She coughed and added, ‘This evening I was at the service being held for the Mayor. Lotz’s words were true – the Mayor was burned. It’s hard to think such a thing could happen.’
‘Indeed,’ said her husband coldly, filling up his pipe from the packet of tobacco lying on the table.
‘At least I managed to get tobacco,’ said Léonie somewhat lamely.
When he had filled his pipe and puffed on it for a few seconds he said in a harsh tone, ‘You had no right to leave the house at such a late hour without my permission.’
‘I thought under the circumstances it was excusable.’
‘Under what circumstances?’
‘The circumstances of the Mayor’s death.’
‘So, everything must cease to function because of the Mayor’s death?’
‘I waited for you so long that I thought you had gone to the bar. Besides, the meal was prepared and the fire was lit. What more could I do?’
‘The fire was low and the meal was cold,’ said her husband. ‘What kind of welcome is that when I come home tired and freezing?’
Léonie bit her lip as she confronted him. His eyes, she noticed, were slightly glazed as though he had been drinking alcohol.
‘Then you must have been very late,’ she said.
‘But not as late as you,’ he shouted. He stood up and slapped her face then said, ‘Fetch some logs for this fire. It’s nearly out and I feel bad enough as it is.’
Léonie touched her burning cheek then went out to fetch logs from the wood-shed, which she put on the fire after first adding some paper. She asked her husband for a match which he flung across in a vicious manner. When the logs began to burn he took his chair over to the fire and sat before it blocking out the heat while Léonie went over and sat with her elbow on the table and chin in hand. Some time passed before her husband turned to her saying, ‘In any case, what was the Mayor to you?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, taking her hand from her chin. ‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Because you seem to be obsessed with him.’
‘I am not obsessed with him. I simply felt sad that he had to die in such a dreadful manner. Any normal person would feel the same.’
‘Why do you look so guilty then?’
‘Do I?’ said Léonie. ‘I think it must be your imagination. You have been drinking too much Pernod.’
Her husband stared back at the fire. He appeared to be brooding on something. Léonie began to yawn, not with fatigue, but with nerves. Usually he would fall asleep after his meal but tonight it seemed unlikely. Then he turned to her again.
‘I almost forgot to tell you,’ he said with a twisted smile. ‘The river has burst its banks and my land is covered and the crops are ruined.’
‘But that is terrible!’ said Léonie, taking her hand from her chin and sitting up straight. ‘What will we do?’
‘You mean what will I do,’ said her husband smiling, or at least, baring his teeth for his eyes were cold and glassy.
Léonie whispered, ‘Then what will you do?’
‘Do not worry,’ said her husband, ‘I have my plans.’ He spat into the fire with an air of satisfaction.
Léonie sat blinking with agitation. If the land was covered in water and the crops were ruined they would have no vegetables to eat, and what was worse she would not be rid of him during the day. Her life would become unbearable and although she was consumed with anxiety she felt she dare not question him further, his mood being so irrational. They sat for a good while in silence then without warning he said, ‘Tell me, was it the Mayor’s son that you once bore?’
Taken aback, Léonie could only stare at him. Then she pulled herself together and said, ‘I do not understand you. The Mayor’s son is in the mountains, or so I believe.’
‘I am speaking of the son you had who was drowned in the river, or have you forgotten about him altogether?’
‘What kind of talk is this?’ said Léonie. ‘It was your son who was drowned in the river or should I say, our son.’
‘And yet,’ her husband said thoughtfully, ‘he never looked like me not by one single feature. I often wondered about that.’
Léonie said as if bewildered, ‘If I did not know your land is under water and that you appear to have been drinking Pernod I would think you have gone out of your mind. As it is I can only feel pity that you are speaking to me like this.’
At that her husband jumped from his seat, gripped her by the shoulders and shook her so hard that when he released her she almost fell on the floor.
‘Do not feel pity for me!’ he shouted. ‘I am a man of some pride and ambition. I will not go under like the other weaklings in this village. I have made my plans.’
Then he returned to his seat at the fire. Léonie sat, faint and trembling. After a long pause she said, ‘And what are your plans?’
After a moment’s deliberation he said calmly enough, ‘I might as well tell you since it will let you know where you stand. My plan is to sell this house and with the money I will begin a new life in another country, where an ambitious man can succeed more easily than he would in this village of incestuous relationships where the Mayor would have any hag who crosses his path, and the priest sleeps with his housekeeper and the occupiers think of us as barbarians and I have no doubt they are right.’
‘I see,’ said Léonie noticing her husband’s eyes were beginning to droop. ‘And what of me?’
‘And what of you?’ he repeated in a tired voice. ‘I really do not care. All I know is that I will be encumbered with you no longer. You are not only a stupid woman but an adulteress into the bargain. Even a lesser man than I would not put up with such a wife.’
‘I may be stupid but there is no proof I am an adulteress.’
‘Your look of guilt was proof enough for me,’ he muttered, his head bowing with fatigue.
‘I see,’ said Léonie, clasping her hands tight within her lap. Then she spoke out firmly. ‘When I think about your plan it occurs to me it is a good one. I have always had the feeling that this village was no place for a proud and ambitious man like yourself, and now that your land is covered in water and your crops ruined it would seem that the time is ripe for you to leave. In fact I will be very happy if you do so for you may be a proud man but you are a bad husband.’
He gave no sign he heard this so she spoke louder.
‘And you were right about the Mayor. Indeed he was a man who would go with any willing female who crossed his path. I should know. I crossed his path quite a few times. Though I am sure the son I bore was yours but that is not important any more since they are both dead. So the sooner you go, the better.’
Still he gave no sign of hearing her and when she looked at him closely she saw he was asleep. She thought how easy it would be to push him into the fire, but the thought passed. Instead she stood up and shook him by the shoulder saying, ‘I think it is time you should go to bed.’ He lifted his head, stared at her blearily and said, ‘Take your hand off me. I am going,’ then stumbled over to the bed against the wall and lay down on it fully clothed.
Léonie took over his seat by the fire and stretched her cold hands towards the flames while her husband began to snore. She thought about his plan to leave but somehow had no faith in it. Apart from the accusation about her and the Mayor his words were similar to words she had heard before. She began to conceive a plan of her own. Rising from her seat she went over to the dresser and took from a drawer a sheet of writing paper, a pen and a bottle of ink, all of which had lain there untouched since before the occupation. Then she started to write.
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Dear Aunt,
I write to you in the hope that you are keeping well despite these harsh times. In fact I was considering visiting you and perhaps staying with you for a short time or even longer if you wished. I know it cannot be easy for you to manage your small farm so I am willing to help in any way I can and I would not require any payment. As for my keep, I can give you something towards that since I have been saving money in a stocking for this purpose. You see my husband intends to leave the village in order to begin a new life in another place where his ambitions will be better realised. He is a proud man and a hard worker so he is bound to succeed. But since I am not so proud and ambitious I have refused to go with him. On the other hand if you do not find this arrangement suitable please do not hesitate to write and let me know. In any case I will be glad to hear from you since it is a long time since I have had a letter from anyone.
Your affectionate niece,
Léonie.
After addressing the envelope and putting the letter inside it, she entered her son’s room and put it under the pillow on his bed. In the dark she undressed then lay between the sheets that were cold but she scarcely noticed this, her mind being so fixed on the letter and the look of surprise which would appear on Lotz’s face when she asked him if he would be good enough to post it for her if she gave him money for the stamp. She was so excited by her plan that she forgot to wait for the presence of her son, which did not enter the room at any time during that night.
The Hut
The hut was so dark and dreary that I wished we had never come. Hardboard covered the window to keep intruders out, though there was nothing to steal but the spade behind the boiler where we used to light fires. I asked my husband if we should light a fire and he said it wasn’t worth it as we wouldn’t be stopping long.
‘It’s all right for you. My feet are freezing.’
‘You should have put on something warmer,’ he said, which was true, but I hadn’t bargained on coming to the hut when we first set out. If I’d known, I would have brought a bottle of sherry like I used to do. On summer evenings we sipped it out of cracked cups while watching the sun go down. That was before he’d had the heart attack.
Everything had been cheerier then. Nowadays we didn’t do anything except take the odd short walk if the weather was dry. This was the first time we’d been back for months.
‘I wonder what happened to the boy,’ I said.
‘What boy?’
‘The boy who shared the hut with us. He was going to build a pigeon loft and you were supposed to be giving him a hand, remember?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think he intended building anything. He was too damned lazy. Went about like a half-shut knife, he did.’
‘That’s not true,’ I said indignantly. ‘He helped you fix the fence.’
‘Only because it suited him.’ He lit his pipe for the umpteenth time. I went to the door and gazed out at what had been his vegetable plot. It was covered in grass and weeds and apart from the potato shaws there was no sign of vegetables. Likely they’d been eaten by slugs and rabbits. I turned and asked him if the potatoes were ready for picking.
‘They should be. I’ll dig them up once I’ve had a draw.’
I thought he was always having a draw. He said the pipe was less harmful than cigarettes. I suspected he was fooling himself. After a while he lifted the spade and headed for the plot. From the doorway I watched him dig with surprising strength, praying he wouldn’t ask me to help him for I couldn’t stand the sight of all those beetles crawling over my feet. Then he called on me to bring out some plastic bags. I went inside and looked around the shelves but could see nothing but newspapers.
‘Will these do?’ I said, stumbling towards him, my shoes covered in mud.
‘They’ll have to,’ he said, then stopped digging to watch me wrap the potatoes. It wasn’t easy. They kept falling out.
‘Hurry up,’ he said, then threw down the spade and said he would have to come back another day because his back was sore.
I arose stiffly, clutching the bundles. When I reached the hut he’d found the plastic bags.
‘You couldn’t have looked properly,’ he said, handing them over. Without a word I transferred the potatoes into the bags then wiped my hands on my coat, noticing that his hands were clean.
‘I hope the boy doesn’t come back for the spade,’ he said, as he was putting it away.
‘He’s probably got better things to do.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like enjoying himself.’
‘Ah,’ he said, as though I’d touched him on a sore point.
It was then I took out a half-smoked cigarette which had been in my coat pocket for ages.
‘I thought you’d given them up,’ he said. ‘You told me you had.’
‘So I have. This is the last.’
‘Cigarette smoke is bad for my health.’
‘Pipe smoke is bad for everybody’s health.’
‘Nonsense. It’s a different type of smoke altogether.’ There was no point in arguing. The cigarette tasted foul but gave me the courage to tell him that if he didn’t light a fire I was going home.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘but don’t blame me if the wood is too damp.’
I thought, he must be cold himself, when he did as I suggested. The wood caught fire and soon flames were licking the edge of the boiler. In a better mood I said I’d like to do a sketch of the hut one day. It would be something to look back on if it was ever dismantled. He studied me narrowly.
‘I recollect you saying that once before.’
‘When was that?’
‘One evening last summer when the boy was here. It seemed to amuse him. He laughed at you.’
‘I don’t remember,’ I said hotly.
‘Likely because you’d drunk too much sherry. I know I had a few myself but it was no excuse for his attitude.’
‘What attitude?’
‘He was forever interrupting me when I spoke and I caught him staring at you when he thought I wasn’t looking. I don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t been there.’
‘For God’s sake, he was only a boy –’ I began, then broke off. My husband was a sick man. I’d better not say anything to put his blood-pressure up.
‘I believe that’s the rain on,’ I said, hearing it patter on the roof. ‘It’s a good job you got the potatoes in when you did.’
‘Yes,’ he said vaguely, as though his mind was elsewhere.
A gust of wind blew the door open. As I closed it I saw the sky had turned black. When it was closed we could hardly see a thing.
‘We’ll have to make a run for it before the rain gets any heavier,’ I said.
‘I’m in no shape to run. Look on the shelf. There should be a candle in that empty sherry bottle.’
I felt along the shelf and found the bottle. There was hardly any candle left but I put a match to it while my husband puffed on his pipe. The smoke made me cough.
‘I’ll have to get out of here,’ I said. ‘I feel as though I’m choking.’
‘Do what you like.’
Angered by the way he spoke and now not giving a damn about his blood-pressure, I asked what he thought the boy would have done if he hadn’t been there. He stroked his chin then finally said, ‘Something diabolic no doubt.’
When I told him to be more precise he said, ‘The state you were in he could have stolen your purse.’
‘I didn’t have a purse with me.’
‘Oh well,’ he shrugged, ‘I’m sure he would have done something objectionable. He was that type of boy.’
‘You know what I think?’ I said. ‘I think you were jealous of him. That’s why you’re running him down.’
‘Me, jealous of him?’ he sneered. ‘Don’t make me laugh.’
‘All right, I won’t,’ I said, ‘but it seems strange to me when I’ve always found the boy helpful and obliging. His only fault, if you could call it that, was a tendency to blush, which
I suppose would irritate someone like you whose skin is as thick as putty.’
As a final thrust I said the boy reminded me of my son.
‘What son?’
‘The son I would have had but for the miscarriage.’
He stared at me wildly. ‘You’re not going to bring that up, are you?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ I said, staring defiantly back. Then the candle went out and we were in the dark.
‘Aren’t you going to say something?’ I said, after a long pause.
‘About what?’
‘About the boy.’
‘Certainly not.’
I wasn’t surprised. He would be offended now. I was never allowed to mention the miscarriage. It was like a crime that had to be kept hidden. Driven by this bitter reflection, I added daringly, ‘Come to think of it, our son might have turned out like the boy, both in nature and looks. Did you ever think of that?’
He groaned. ‘I’ll try my best not to.’
‘Especially when you’ve got your blood-pressure to think of.’
I wondered if I’d gone too far when I saw him lift the spade from behind the boiler.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘I’m taking this home in case it gets stolen. I’ll need it for the rest of the potatoes.’
‘I suppose you could,’ I said, relieved but thinking him an idiot to attach so much importance to a spade. ‘I won’t be coming back with you. It’s depressing enough without having to sit around a dark, freezing hut.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he said in his usual irritable tone. Then he stood up and opened the door. ‘The rain’s off.’ Sure enough when I looked out the sky had cleared and the sun was shining brightly on the puddles.
‘Right, let’s go,’ he said. ‘You bring the potatoes and I’ll take the spade.’
‘Aren’t you going to lock the door?’ I asked him as he was walking away.
He thought for a minute then said, ‘I might as well leave it open for that dratted boy. Knowing him, he’s likely lost his own key. That’s probably why he hasn’t been back.’
