Of Love and Slaughter

by Angela Huth

  Silly mistake, he thought, still puzzled about the lights. Too tired to dwell on it, he hastened into his cold bed. The last picture in his mind, before sleep overcame him, was of Lily sitting by the fire twirling her ankle. He did not dream of her. The next day, when he rose at five, the lights in the kitchen were turned off, and now he could not remember putting them off. He came to the only possible conclusion – lack of sleep plays tricks on the mind.

  He would be glad when the lambing season was over and a less harsh routine resumed.

  Nell came over one afternoon soon after that. George had fallen asleep on the sofa at the end of a long shift. She woke him with a cup of tea.

  ‘You’ll get used to it,’ she said. ‘Next year you’ll be hardened to little sleep. It won’t be nearly so bad.’

  Hardened as she was herself, Nell, despite the weather-burnish of her cheeks, looked pale. George liked the idea that for all her experience of the tough life of a farmer, her resilience and strength, even she looked in need of sleep at lambing time. It made him feel less feeble. They had had a busy time, she said, and so far only a couple of lambs stillborn.

  ‘And I heard from Lily this morning,’ she added, after a pause.

  ‘Oh? I’ve not heard a word.’

  ‘Just a postcard. She apologised for going off without saying goodbye. She said she was staying in Norfolk for a while. She said … she hoped we’d be able to go riding together again one day. She’d enjoyed that.’

  ‘But she didn’t say anything about coming back?’

  ‘No;

  ‘She’s a bit of a mystery figure, Lily. I don’t know what to make of her. To be honest, I don’t think I treated her very well. I found myself ignoring her, not at all sure I wanted her to be here.’

  ‘You weren’t very welcoming, no.’

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘No, but it was easy enough to see. I think she felt she’d made a mistake, coming here.’

  ‘Oh God. Her timing wasn’t good – Dad’s death and everything – but that’s no excuse. I’m sorry, I’m guilty. But I don’t see what I can do.’ He rubbed both hands over his face, as if washing. ‘Did she by any chance give you an address?’

  ‘She didn’t.’

  ‘Then what—?’

  Nell stood up, took George’s empty cup from him. ‘You could think of something, I daresay. But there’s always the possibility you’re the last person she’d want to hear from. I’m off. Prodge insists we don’t need any help, lambing on top of seeing to the cows. But I’m not sure I agree with him.’

  ‘I could come over, give you a hand later on this evening.’

  Nell gave the faintest smile. ‘You’ve enough to do here. But thanks.’

  When she had gone George slumped back on the sofa. He could hear a tap running in the sink next door, the chink of china cups laid to dry on the draining board. Good, kind, strong, thoughtful Nell.

  He had intended to have a couple of hours’ sleep in bed before the six to midnight shift. But it was a fine evening, and the idea of sleep suddenly held no appeal. He wanted air, exercise, head soothed by the clouds.

  George climbed the high ground behind the farmhouse and stood looking down on the familiar patchwork of his fields and woods, the blade of river in the valley, the landscape cobwebbed in silvery light from the sky. Down on the farm he could see the miniature figure of Ben urging the cows from the shed to the milking parlour, and wondered how many thousands of times he had gone through this routine in his working life. In winter, most of Ben’s day was spent in the shed or the parlour: it was non-stop feeding, scraping, milking, attending to the calves. Ben’s only occasional release from this discipline was to spend an hour or so hedging, a job he loved. No wonder that in the winter months his young face grew pale. But he never complained.

  George watched his Friesians slowly plodding their way to the parlour, their short daily journey causing them no hurry or surprise. Then he turned to watch two rooks nearby fighting over the small carcass of some animal, their ruffled blue-black feathers parting to expose shocking white skin which reminded him of his first day with the ram. Their shrieks, sharp as metal, jarred the silence. George moved nearer to them. They flew away

  The harshness of their voices set up a nagging question in his own head: could Nell be right? Might Lily, so unfairly treated, want never to see him again? What, if anything, could he do to make amends?

  As George strode along the top of the ridge, valleys clearly defined in their winter bareness each side of him, he felt like a man emerging from a chrysalis. The realisation of his unforgivable behaviour, not only to Lily but others, so heavy upon him of late, rolled away. It left in its wake a lightness of being that comes from redemption, the charge of adrenalin that comes from resolution. He turned and looked down on to the distant huddle of slateroofed buildings that were his part of his farm, and knew he would return to them a different being from the man who had set out to walk not an hour ago.

  George began to hurry. Plans jostled within him. He had never felt less tired. The night ahead would be significant because it would be the night before the day on which he would act…

  The next morning he drove to the city for a meeting with his bank manager to make arrangements for the large cheque that had come from the sale of the firm. He had a quick sandwich in the bar of the Bridge Hotel. On his way out he stopped at reception to enquire whether one Lily Crichton, who had stayed a couple of nights some weeks ago, had left her address. The receptionist, an old friend of Hollow’s, and whom George and his father had known for years, wrote it down for him. Of course, he thought, he could have come up with this solution as soon as Lily had left. But something had kept it from him, holding him back until now, the right time.

  George hurried home to send a postcard. Do come back, he wrote, if you can forgive my churlishness. Pausing for a moment to scour his soul for the absolute truth, he decided to admit it. I miss you very much, he added.

  He regarded his own message with some surprise. Its honesty struck him blindingly. He did miss her. He had been missing her, though unable precisely to understand this state, ever since she had left. Luminiferous Lily: a bringer of light, a kinsman of beauty. She had brought something into the chill of the old house, and had taken it away with her. He would like her to return, trailing the singular warmth that had so changed the rooms. George drove with his postcard the two miles to the nearest post office. He hoped he was not too late.

  It was a mild spring that year. By the beginning of April all the ewes had lambed and those with just one offspring had been returned to pasture. George returned to the luxury of nights without shifts in the shed, and within a few days the fatigue that had gripped him for the past few weeks evaporated. He turned his mind to the business of increasing his herd of Friesians, and the spreading of organic fertiliser. He enjoyed that job: jogging up and down the fields on the tractor, alone in a small world of the bright papery green of early April, trees suddenly fuzzy with new leaf and blue skies, no longer weighed down by winter cloud, that seemed to rise higher in the hemisphere.

  Several weeks passed with no word from Lily George was driven to think his appeal to her was too late. She was not interested in his change of mind: he had had his chance, she had been there for him, and he had spurned her. Or perhaps she had not received his card: that was his last hope. Perhaps she was still in Norfolk, had not returned to London and found it.

  As time went by this seemed unlikely, and George was forced to fight against the regret within him. He tried to put her out of his mind. But there is cruelty in the remembrance of things foolishly committed, and this was hard. Moments that had seemed of no significance at the time returned to him, battering like pellets against glass. He remembered the odd, elegant way she had of running up stairs or steps, her back straight, like a dancer’s. He remembered the way she would try out on him a shy smile, and once she had seen it was not rejected by his look, how she would allow it to burst into the most daz
zling smile he had ever seen. He remembered her knack of imbuing small, domestic acts in an indefinable way of her own that gave to a perfectly ordinary evening a significance that was almost unnerving. And now he missed all those things. In each of the many pictures that came back to him was always, in the background, the sight of himself – glowering, cold, unsympathetic.

  One afternoon he finished in the fields earlier than expected, and knowing there was an hour or so to spare before feeding the mothers of twins or triplets still in the shed, he intended to concentrate on some paperwork. There had been little time for this during the lambing season, and piles had accumulated.

  George went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea which he would take with him to his study. He found Nell sitting at the table looking at a copy of Farmers Weekly.

  ‘Brought you some bantams’ eggs,’ she said, and pushed a six-egg box across the table.

  ‘Fantastic,’ said George. ‘Bantams’ eggs for breakfast. Thanks very much.’

  As George returned the box to the table, he saw a scrap of paper with a message written in pencil. Dusty’s writing. Lily rang, it said. George glanced at Nell. Her eyes were back on the magazine. It was unlikely she had not seen the note, but he could not be sure. Nell looked up.

  ‘I love my bantams,’ she said.

  George went to the stove, put on the kettle. His mind was a confetti of questions. When did she ring? Would she ring again? Where was she? What else did she say? For the first time he could remember George longed to be rid of Nell so that he could telephone Dusty, try to find out more. Though on second thoughts that would probably be unwise, convey an interest he had no wish as yet to confess.

  George stood at the stove, one hand on the handle of the ancient kettle, his back to Nell. He listened to the familiar rumble of water, faster and deeper as it came close to boiling. He heard the click of pages as Nell flipped through the magazine. He knew that somehow Nell had guessed at the thrilling anticipation in his heart, and her knowledge felt like an intrusion. Tension between them writhed like an animal trying to escape, almost tangible. He poured mugs of strong tea and fetched a jug of milk from the fridge, taking his time. Nell’s hands were laid flat on the table like sleeping dogs. The silence was porous: the thoughts running through it almost visible. George sat down and shoved a mug of tea and the jug towards Nell. Their eyes met.

  ‘Still no news from Lily?’ Nell asked.

  George swallowed. He could not lie to her, though he was filled with regret at having to reveal the truth at the moment he most wanted to reflect on this turn of events in solitude. What was essential was to convince Nell that he did not suspect she had read the note.

  ‘As a matter of fact there was a message to say she’d rung this morning.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Nell’s mouth was working. ‘I haven’t heard another word since the postcard, what was it now – two or three weeks ago?’

  ‘She probably won’t ring again.’ George flattened his voice against the beating of his heart.

  ‘Oh, she probably will. I hope she does.’ Nell gave a smile that came and went. The silence returned.

  ‘What’s Prodge up to?’ George asked at last.

  ‘He’s gone off to buy – guess what? – a black leather jacket.’ This time, at the thought of her brother, Nell smiled properly. ‘Thing about Prodge, beneath the serious young farmer who never had any fun, there’s a wild youth who just occasionally wants to behave like most others of his generation. He’s also talking about a powerful motorbike.’

  ‘A motorbike?’ George smiled back. They were on course again. ‘Does he know what a powerful motorbike would cost?’

  ‘He does, and he says soon he’ll be able to afford it. I mean the farm’s doing well, all due to his hard work. He’s managed to put by quite a bit, despite all the money for the shed. He asked what I thought, and I said, You go ahead, Prodge. You get yourself a bike when you can afford it. I mean, he doesn’t have many luxuries in his life, and he works harder than anyone I’ve ever met. He deserves to treat himself to something he really wants, don’t you think?’

  ‘I certainly do,’ said George. ‘It’s a great idea. I shall be very jealous. Hope to get taken for a ride sometime.’

  ‘Of course …’ Nell sipped her tea. ‘I daresay there’s a hidden agenda. I mean, I daresay he imagines some amazing girl riding behind him. I daresay he’s calculated the pulling power of some roaring great bike – very rare in these parts. He’s dying to get married, as you know’

  George nodded, trying to picture his friend as a married man. Then the telephone rang. He went to the window ledge, where it sat on a pile of papers, determined not to look as if he was eager to answer it. He stood with his back to Nell, staring out of the window, knowing her eyes were on him.

  ‘Lily,’ was all he said at first. He wanted to say a jumble of incoherent things that might have conveyed the turmoil within him. But he was constrained by Nell’s presence, could only nod, listening to her. ‘Fine,’ he added, at last, nodding. ‘OK. Great. See you then.’

  He turned slowly back to Nell, who was standing.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I mean, she’s not sure. Lily’s always vague about where she is.’ He feared his small laugh hid neither his strange guilt, not his excitement.

  ‘Is she coming here? Is she on her way?’

  ‘Uh, I rather think she seems to be.’

  ‘I’ll go, then.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Nell. She won’t be here for a while, and there’s absolutely no need for you to go. All I’ve got to do is begin on the correspondence.’ He waved at a pile of unopened mail on the table, knowing quite well it had no chance of his attention today.

  ‘No: I must go anyway. Got all our post to see to.’ She made her way to the door. ‘Tell her to ring me, though. We could ride any afternoon now lambing’s over.’

  ‘I’ll do that. And you tell Prodge to come up here in his new jacket soon as possible.’ His words were tumbling over themselves. He wanted Nell to go, go, go. She was taking an age opening the door into the yard, going through it.

  “Bye, George.’

  For some reason, George kissed her on the cheek. This was not a custom between them: they met so often that such a social nicety, so fashionable among urban folk, would have been absurd.

  ‘See you,’ he said.

  In the few hours between Nell’s departure and Lily’s arrival innumerable doubts, questions and anxieties tangled in George’s mind, further confused by the unquestionable longing he felt as he threw pellets into troughs, and went to inspect a couple of new cows Saul had bought at the market that day. He had no appetite for the cottage pie that Dusty had left for him (in truth, her repertoire of pies was beginning to pall) but opened a bottle of good white wine. He poured himself a glass and asked himself questions: had he really missed Lily? Yes: though he had not allowed himself to think about this much. Could he envisage the future with her? Possibly. Without her? Didn’t like to think about it. How did he feel about her? Not entirely sure: damned excitment at seeing her getting in the way. Did he, well, love her? Impossible to answer. Why were his hands shaking, his heart beating audibly? Goodness knows. Any idea how he was going to behave, what he was going to say? No idea at all.

  It was almost midnight when the headlights of Lily’s car slashed through the kitchen windows. By now George had assumed she had changed her mind, wasn’t coming. He had finished the bottle of wine and felt slightly drunk. When the headlights knifed through him, meaning she had actually arrived, he went out to greet her. The familiar scent of her came to him before he could see her: it was a moonless night.

  ‘Here I am,’ she said.

  George, not altogether certain of his steps, went to the boot of her car and picked up two heavy suitcases. These seemed to balance him, steady him. He led the way back into the kitchen, put them down. A moment or two later – it seemed like an eternity – Lily followed. He turned to her, took her i
n his arms. He could feel the warmth of her, her heart beating in time to his own beneath the slippery silk of her shirt.

  ‘I’m sorry’ he said, and pushed her away so that he could look at her questioning smile, which turned into a long, thrilling laugh before they hugged again, and the embrace turned into a kiss. For George, it was unlike kissing any woman he had ever known and he did not want it to stop.

  Looking back on the evening of Lily’s return, George could only remember sensations. He supposed he put more logs on the fire and they sat by it in their usual seats, drinking more wine. He presumed they talked a little, but had no recollection of what was said. His head spun and flashed: the solid old kitchen had burst into a million shining fragments. It was an evening so vivid in its enchantment that even while it existed in the present it held the luminescence of the past. George was unaccustomed to such an experience – a man ungrounded by inexplicable joy, treading the waters of something that he had never envisaged, fired by the longing to know what would happen next.

  The thing he remembered quite clearly was the darkness in the window fading, and the emergence of a dawn the colour of dew that silvered its way through the kitchen. George suggested it was time to go to bed. There was time ahead to talk, he said. Endless time.

  Balanced again by the suitcases – their weight giving blissful assurance of the length of time Lily intended to stay – George led the way upstairs to the spare room. Of one thing he was quite clear: this was not the moment to suggest she should share his bed. He loved the idea of luxurious anticipation, the stretching out of time, neither knowing when it would be that they could wait no longer. For the present, they were both exhausted by marvelling at the turn of events, though deep sleep was unlikely. Lily stood looking round her old room.