Of Love and Slaughter

by Angela Huth

‘He said to do as I thought best. After much reflection, I think farmer rather than solicitor is best for me.’

  ‘It’s a grand idea. You’ve always loved being outdoors. A hands-on farmer. Mr Elkin would have liked that. He missed so much, letting others do most of the work for him.’

  ‘Quite.’ Dusty’s approval of his plan was yet another positive piece in the exhilarating pattern of the morning. In the warmth of her approbation he suddenly remembered that Lily Crichton might drop in this evening. The thought of her visit, encompassed in his general feeling of well-being, did not disturb him. But he had nothing to offer her. ‘Dusty,’ he said, ‘the cupboards are all bare as you’ve probably noticed, and there’s someone coming to supper. Would it be possible—?’

  ‘I’ll leave a pie and carrots ready. You used to like my rice pudding … I’ll put one in the bottom oven.’

  With Dusty behind him, relieving him of domestic arrangements, it was all going to be much easier, much better than he could have imagined. George had no fear of living alone so long as it was in the place he knew and loved. Should he be in need of company, Prodge and Nell were just a mile up the road: they could visit each other, as they always used to before George went to Oxford, most evenings. By day, he would be wholly occupied, making the most of his physical strength on the land. Thanks to his father’s skills and the dedication of the helpers employed, the farm was a small but profitable business. He would like to expand it, of course: buy more land, more animals, do up the farm buildings. He could imagine a good life ahead. He was eager to get on with it.

  At the office later that morning he made an effort to maintain an impassive expression, but there must have been some light in his eyes that he could not hide from Hollow. When she brought his cup of coffee at eleven, he asked her to sit down. For the first time in her career she took the visitor’s chair. As she lowered herself, her distaste encompassed a certain dignity. She sat with a very straight back, like one who has been through the rigours of deportment lessons at school. Surely her jersey, thought George, was the same one that had dizzied him as a child. His eyes skidded along the uncomfortable reds and blues of her chest. He watched her clasp her ringless red fingers, steady herself. Concentrating on the fineness of her behaviour, George remained silent. He was then appalled to hear her speak before some apt opening to this unhappy meeting had occurred to him.

  ‘It’s all right, don’t worry.’ Hollow gave something between a gasp and a sigh. ‘I know what you’re going to tell me,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen it coming.’

  3

  George drove slowly home that evening, Lily’s headlights just behind him. He was annoyed with himself: whatever had caused him to agree to this? He should have realised that, having broken the news to Hollow, he would need more time alone to deliberate, work out the absolute certainty of his plan. Should he change his mind, it was not too late to withdraw, carry on as his father intended. But now the evening would be crowded with small talk to Lily. No time to think further. The opportunity to agonise finally over his decision would be swept away by his polite, foolish invitation to a girl he scarcely knew. Idiot, he said to himself.

  Despite all his efforts the previous evening, George had failed to get much response from the boiler. Lily had come in thick jerseys and made no mention of the cold in the house, but George, senses heightened by the presence of a visitor, was suddenly aware of a dark smell of damp in the study. The fire had not been lighted there since his father’s death. They moved to the kitchen. Lily gave a slight shiver, but still she said nothing against the temperature. George liked her for that. He put a match to the fire and opened a bottle of wine.

  They sat each side of the fire. George remained more preoccupied with his own thoughts (what sort of evening is Hollow spending? he wondered) than with entertaining Lily. She was looking round, blatantly curious. He watched her taking in the chaotic gathering of things in the room, the muddle of objects crowded on to shelves, the piles of farming correspondence on the dresser. He found himself looking where she looked, and saw cracked walls, paint lacerated by years of steam, cobwebs slung between high corners – all revealing that a critical eye had long ceased to concern itself with such familiar signs of decay. Deterioration is only realised, George thought, when a stranger arrives to swoop over the imperfections. And it’s then that your protective instinct, the instinct to defend your own territory, comes into play.

  ‘Nothing’s been changed since my mother died,’ he said. He intended to say I’m afraid, but those two words, indicating apology, or shame, did not appear. Lily nodded. ‘My father and I got so used to it all I suppose we didn’t notice things in the house have been … slipping a bit. I’ll have to make an effort to sort it all out. Maybe get in a painter.’

  Lily smiled. ‘I like rooms,’ she said, ‘where signs of the past are gathered. Where you can look about and be reminded by objects about certain events, certain years. That old bottle of dried-up ink, for instance.’ She nodded towards the top shelf of the dresser where a scarcely visible bottle of Quink stood between a skein of untreated wool and a cracker decorated with imitation holly. ‘That bottle of ink: can you remember the day you bought it? What you were thinking that day? What was happening in your life?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. No memory of buying it.’

  Lily gave a sigh, almost impatient. ‘My flat’s full of junk, most of it small memorials to some time past. But then I like to keep the whole thing, the time thing, going all at once: past, present and future. I don’t like to abandon any one of them. You don’t feel like that?’

  ‘No,’ said George. This time he added, ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’ He remembered thinking, that day by the river, that Lily was slightly eccentric. The feeling was still there.

  ‘It probably means a cluttered mind, cobwebs that ought to be swept away. But I can’t quite manage it. I can’t ever shake off what’s gone before, eager though I am for today and tomorrow’

  Silence fell between them. George was aware he was not fully concentrating on what she was saying and had little desire to do so. Although she had won his approval for not complaining about the cold, she still felt like an intruder on this difficult evening. He looked at the clock – daresay she’d observed its cracked glass face – and saw there were several hours of politeness to go. Perhaps he was being unfair, not trying. Perhaps she saw his hostility, was making an effort to win him over with her slightly potty talk about time and her liking for shambolic rooms. But having invited her in the first place, George knew he should do the decent thing: put aside his regret, make an effort.

  They sat down to the cottage pie and carrots at the kitchen table. Dusty had swept piles of farming magazines and old newspapers to one end, leaving a clear space to eat. George lighted the stub of candle in the blackened pewter candlestick, fearing it would not last the evening. At the table, he floundered in the next silence. It was all much harder going with Lily here than it had been in the bar of the Bridge Hotel. He could not think how to unlock the awkwardness he felt – though it was apparent that this was something Lily did not share. She was eating hungrily. When she looked up at him she smiled. If his present mood had not been so heavy upon him, he might have found her beguiling. What the hell should he say?

  ‘You seem very happy,’ he ventured. ‘I mean, for one who hasn’t found her exact path. Most people fret so, unsure of what they want to do.’

  ‘I positively like the not quite knowing. I’m sure of the direction, the area. But waiting for a signpost to the precise road to appear – and I’m sure it will, just out of the blue – is exciting. I don’t fret at all. You’re right: I’m very happy.’

  ‘Were you happy at Oxford?’

  ‘Oh yes. In all sorts of different ways. I was lucky enough not to have any disastrous love affairs. I always knew exactly when to leave someone, before he had a chance to leave me. Then, I loved my subject. I loved working hard.’ She paused. ‘I suppose I’ve been very lucky in that nothing terrible ha
s happened to me so far: nothing to shatter my world. Secure childhood, parents still alive, home still there when I want to return. My brother Mark had a drug problem, but he got through it, he’s fine. I realise this all sounds very smug, but it’s true. I’ll pay for it, I daresay. Something terrible will happen to blast the fragile structure. But for the time being I feel so charged with various joys that all I want to do is reinvest them in others … I’m not really sure how. I know teaching people how to see is one way, but does that really work?’ She paused again. ‘If you asked me what I’d most like to be, my answer would be someone who had the ability to inspire joy in work, joy in life. But of course that’s the one thing one can’t ever become. To be inspirational is a gift from God, and you’re either born in a cloud of gold dust that touches others, or you’re not.’

  Lily lowered her head as she took a sip of wine. Then she looked up, met George’s eyes. Light from the candle gilded her serious face. For a moment he saw an illusion of the gold dust she had just mentioned.

  ‘I’ve gone on too much, haven’t I?’ she said. She smiled, easing away the seriousness. ‘But I’ll tell you one other thing. My father – he’s a judge – says I’ve never outgrown my childlike sense of wonder. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad – whether, as a grown-up, one should employ more scepticism, cynicism. Be more realistic. But I think he’s right. I’m full of wonder every day. I’m a leaf, really, blown about, hither and thither, by sensation. It doesn’t have to be caused by people, which is a help, I suppose – nature and art have a profound effect. But it’s the hardest thing in the world, isn’t it, to describe one’s own kind of happiness – the lightness of being that transforms every day, every hour. But for heaven’s sake, stop me. Your wine is going to my head.’ She put a hand on George’s arm. He filled her glass.

  ‘I’m enjoying it,’ he said, automatically. Lily looked at him with doubtful enquiry.

  ‘You’re teasing me. You think I’m too … hectic’

  ‘No. I’m not teasing. I’ve never met a leaf before, but I do know what you mean. Really. I rather envy your ability to be gusted about. Much more exciting than being of the firmly-planted-in-my-ways school, like me.’ He smiled to himself. ‘I confess I do sometimes aspire to spontaneity, but I can never get the timing right. I’m always too late. By the time the idea and the urge have come, the event – where I could have shown how spontaneous I can be – is over. I’m left with regret.’

  Then you must alter your timing,’ said Lily. ‘That’s what you must do, or you’ll miss a lot of fun.’

  George thought about that in the silence that followed, and reflected that his reaction to her confession of happiness was true: he had enjoyed it. To try to describe happiness, and he guessed his own experience of the sensation was of a very different order from Lily’s, was something he would never have contemplated. Her attempt was a little overblown (he was glad to have been the single member of her audience), but she had managed to convey her meaning in a way that touched his own less explicit heart. Her two little speeches of conviction, of energy, pleasantly unsettled his solid base. He suddenly felt as he sometimes did at the top of a hill, looking across wooded valleys to exuberant skies. ‘I think there’s some cheese,’ he said.

  Later they returned to the fire and Lily confessed her love of dancing.

  ‘Second best,’ she said. ‘If I hadn’t wanted to do something with pictures, I’d have liked to have trained as a dancer, though I’m sure I wouldn’t have been any good.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know’ George’s eyes went to her leg, crossed over one knee, swinging in time to music in her head. The small pointed foot moved in and out of a flickering fan of light from the flames.

  ‘I’d like to dance round your kitchen table, swirling scarves, Isadora Duncan …’

  George scratched his head. The awkwardness that had clouded the beginning of the evening returned. He dreaded her rising from her chair, seizing a dishcloth and flinging herself round the table. Her element of dottiness both appealed to him and unnerved him. This solid old room had never before entertained a woman like her. George’s thoughts went to his father: what would he have made of her? Would he have been enchanted or repelled? George wasn’t sure what he felt, which made him wary. He kept his eyes on her foot, twirling faster, and the impatient swing of her leg. To his relief she did not get up and entertain him with her Isadora act round the table.

  At ten o’clock Lily said she must go back to the hotel. George offered to lead her to the main road, but she said she would be fine. There was a full moon, she said.

  Oddly, now that she was about to go, George was assaulted by a desire for her to stay. He looked down at her feet.

  ‘You didn’t bring any boots, I see,’ he said. ‘Look at your shoes.’

  Lily glanced at the tidemarks of mud on blue suede. The brightness of the moon lighted the wet mess of the yard. ‘Too late,’ she said as she walked to the front door. ‘They’re ruined. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Far from ruined, and they can be saved from getting worse.’ George picked up Lily with a dramatic swoosh, balancing her across his arms. He registered the lightness of her.

  ‘Spontaneity!’ she cried. ‘Perfect timing.’ One of her hands gripped the back of his neck. ‘Or did you plan this?’

  ‘Course I didn’t plan it. Your shoes were the trigger. Right: we’re on our way’ George stepped out of the door. ‘I feel like one of those firemen who are always there to rescue old women from floods.’ He began to make his cautious way across the yard. To have slipped would have ruined the whole delicacy of his gallant gesture. ‘Have you ever noticed, they carry women in a polite cradle, like this. Men they just sling over their shoulders.’

  They reached the car. George put Lily down. She was laughing.

  ‘I can be quite gallant, if called upon,’ said George.

  ‘You certainly can.’

  Was she grateful? Surprised? Amused? Hard to tell, George thought.

  ‘Can’t count the times I’ve had to lift a ewe out of a ditch. You can’t weigh much more than a lamb …’ He trailed off, aware his stalling tactics were petering out.

  ‘Really?’ She put a hand lightly, briefly, on his arm. Again, he felt their parting was endowed with the sort of merriment he had not felt for a long time, though he judged it best to keep this thought to himself. He wondered if she would suggest, with a tilt of her head, a social kiss of farewell, as she had when he had driven back after the picnic. But she got quickly into the car, pulling on her gloves. George wiped a glitter of frost from the windscreen.

  ‘Thanks. Thanks for supper, too.’

  ‘If ever you’re this way again,’ George heard himself saying, ‘well – you know where I am.’

  ‘I do.’

  When the lights of her car had disappeared round the corner, George, cold, returned to the kitchen. Her absence was acute, in the way that the overnight disappearance of snow that has lain for a short time, transforming all about it, takes some getting used to. George felt physically exhausted, but disinclined to go to bed. He would go up to Prodge and Nell for a nightcap, he decided. He hadn’t seen them since the funeral. He needed them, his oldest friends, to restore his equilibrium.

  A hundred yards from their house George came upon a car parked in the narrow lane. Lily’s, he saw. He stopped, got out, puzzled. She appeared from the front of the car, where she must have been bending down. In the light from the unclouded moon George could see she carried the hectic remnants of a dead pheasant. She did not hold it at arm’s length, but close to her body.

  ‘Not me,’ she said, as George approached. ‘Must have been someone just before I got here. It was fluttering in the middle of the road, poor thing. So I wrung its neck. I was just wondering what to do with it.’

  ‘Here. I’ll take it.’

  Lily handed him the bird. It was still warm, its body a bloody pulp that spewed from still-brilliant feathers. Its head flopped from the broken band of white round
its neck. Its eyes were cynically half closed, as if it had always expected death on a midnight lane. George tossed it on to the sack that covered the back seat of his car. He returned to Lily.

  ‘Blood on your coat,’ he said.

  ‘No matter.’

  ‘That was a kind thing to do. I don’t know many girls who’d—’

  ‘I’m a country girl, remember.’ Lily smiled. ‘Brought up in Norfolk. I used to beat for my father when I was a child.’

  ‘Did you really? I used to do that, too. Five bob a day’ The moonlit creature before him turned into a girl of eleven or twelve bashing at the bushes at the edge of a field of purple cabbages that clacked against her boots. He saw the pleased look on her face when a pheasant rose from the undergrowth and clattered up into the Norfolk sky.

  ‘I must go,’ she said, ‘or I’ll be locked out.’ She hurried back into the car: was gone.

  As George drove into the Prodgers’ yard, he saw Nell coming towards him carrying a dead chicken. I come upon two girls carrying dead birds within the hour, he thought. What’s up? He could see Nell’s was headless, a messy bunch of feathers darkened by blood. George got out of the car.

  ‘About time,’ said Nell. ‘We haven’t seen you for a week. Bloody fox.’ She swung the bird. ‘This one escaped being shut up. Go on in and I’ll be with you in a moment.’ She moved away.

  In the kitchen, a hundred times more chaotic than the one he had just come from, George found Prodge sitting in front of the stove, his legs propped up on its top. He wore the thick bristly socks that went under his boots, and tapped the stem of a pipe against his teeth. He was the only young man George knew who smoked a pipe, but the habit had gone on for so long that George was weary of teasing him. Prodge was instantly pleased to see him. He got up and poured a glass of whisky from a bottle embedded in the muddle of things on the table.

  ‘Sorry I haven’t been over this last week. We’ve been a bit rushed off our feet, both Nell’s horses lame, vets coming and going. And anyhow we thought you’d be pretty busy sorting things out, knew you’d ring if you wanted us.’